


The Quick and the Dead

by tenaya



Category: Forever Knight, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-10-01
Updated: 1996-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old acquaintance from Methos' past catches up to him in Seacouver, one that delights in enjoying an rare old vintage that allows him to revisit the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quick and the Dead

# THE QUICK AND THE DEAD

  


## by Tenaya

  


#### Seacouver, 1995:

"Look, Richie, I'm only going on about this because it's important. You've got to start thinking with your head or you are going to lose it." Adam Pierson, aka Methos, the oldest living Immortal, put all the sincerity he had into his plea.

"Yeah. Like a lot you know." Richie Ryan was sullen. He twirled his beermug about by the handle and wished Adam would go away. He was in the mood tonight for the blues, a beer and some quality time with MacLeod. Well, here at Joe's tavern he had all three and the pesky Adam Pierson to boot. He didn't know why Mac allowed that guy to hang around. He glanced up at Mac and saw the concern written all over his face. Perhaps he could get Mac to send him away.

"Richie, I know what I'm talking about. Do you know that the most amazing person I have ever met was…well, it was with someone who could make Kristen look like Rebecca of Sunnybrooke Farm."

Duncan MacLeod glanced at Adam and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Richie leaned forward in his chair. This was the sort of history he found interesting. "Really? What did she look like?"

"Richie!" Duncan chided.

"Oh no! There is no way I'm going to tell either of you about that. And besides, this is exactly what I'm talking about! You have got to smarten up and not let your…desires make your decisions for you!" Adam continued. He was agitated and his voice was beginning to carry.

Duncan leaned forward. "Adam, calm down. This is neither the time nor the place." Richie, on the other hand, was enjoying hearing Mac reprimand someone other than himself for a change.

Adam slumped back in his chair. "Yes, all right," he said tersely. He looked away. The fingers of his right hand began a rapid, nervous drumming on the table.

Duncan shook his head. "What is wrong with you? You've been acting jumpy for the last few days."

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he snapped. Now it was Adam's turn to be sullen.

Duncan looked between the two of his friends. "Look, guys. Can we lighten up a little? Joe's gonna get real pissed if…."

Suddenly, Adam sat straight up, his head twisting in a slow swivel from side to side. If Richie didn't know better, he would have thought that an Immortal had just come into range, but he felt nothing. "Mac?" he questioned.

MacLeod shook his head, baffled.

Adam's eyes grew round and he seemed ready to bolt from his seat.

"Adam? What is it?" MacLeod was uneasy and very worried.

"Where is the nearest Catholic church?" Adam spoke softly, almost distractedly. His attention was definitely elsewhere.

"What?" Richie gave his head a brief shake, the non–sequitur nearly giving him a brain–strain.

"Out the door, to your left for three blocks, then right for another two. Why?"

Adam reached up and clasped the object he wore around his neck. It lay underneath his sweater and he fingered it through the heavy material. He glanced worriedly at MacLeod. "Have you ever encountered vampires before?"

MacLeod snorted with amusement. "Vampires…yeah, right." When Adam's expression became, if anything, more grave and concerned, MacLeod's smile increased. "Come on, Adam! You don't think we're gonna fall for that old one, do you?"

"Dear god. I have to go. It's best if you stay here with Richie. I'll be back when I can." He stood up without another word and was out the door before MacLeod and Richie had done more than stare at each other in bafflement.

"We go after him, right?" Richie asked. Richie didn't think it was safe for unbalanced Immortals to be wandering about on their own.

Mac nodded, obviously filled with consternation. "You're damn right." They ran for the door.

* * * * *

"I don't understand. Why is this one so special?"

LaCroix was excited, the hunt giving them both a sharp edge that was intoxicating. Glorious anticipation tormented him with such sweet pain that it made him feel quite generous, for tonight he would claim something he had lost for six hundred years. "Natalie, there is so much for you to unlearn. You accepted the truth about vampires, and now it is time to learn about beings who call themselves Immortals."

"More secrets. Great. What else did Nick neglect to tell me?" she asked sarcastically. She was still steamed about what she viewed as her betrayal by Nicolas. In the act of 'bringing her across,' he drank too much of her blood and with her life on the line, he had chosen to let her die rather than to do what he had promised — and what she had wanted for a very long time.

LaCroix smiled. He enjoyed the freshness of her emotions. Anger was such a useful tool. "Actually, I'm not sure Nicolas knows about these. So you see, you may already know something that he does not."

"Sometimes I wish you had killed him." She was in a mood to pout. "Sealing him up in that crypt doesn't seem like enough punishment for me. He was going to let me die, and after he'd just promised me we would always be together."

LaCroix couldn't blame her for how she felt. When Nicolas chose to have LaCroix end both his own and Natalie's life instead of bringing her across, LaCroix knew he had allowed events to progress too far. Extreme measures were called for. Instead of staking Nicolas through the heart as his protege had wanted, LaCroix used the post to knock him senseless. Then it took all the skill he had to spirit Natalie back from the eternal void she had nearly slipped into and welcome her into the realm of forever night. Soon afterwards they had left Toronto and embarked on a journey with no specific destination in mind. Anywhere was fine as long as it was not Toronto.

"His 'punishment' may not be enough — for you. But for him, as the years stretch on, it will give him the time he needs to truly wallow in his guilt, until even _he_ will have his fill of it. When his penance is done, we will let him out. His anger at being imprisoned will have burned away the emotions that were suffocating him. He will want to live again." He favored her with a fervent look. "Then you will have the pleasure to know the real Nicolas!"

Natalie tossed her hair back. "If you say so." She wasn't convinced, but who was she to disagree with the one who had given her what she had long desired — immortality. He was her master now and she had found that he was not nearly as bad as Nick had led her to believe he was. "So, what is it we are doing here?"

"You're going to help me capture this man, then you will be left to your own devices for a night or two. Try to enjoy yourself."

"Daddy Takes A Holiday?"

It was a good thing that LaCroix appreciated her sarcasm. "Something like that."

"Let's do it."

LaCroix smiled fondly. Natalie really did have a knack for being a vampire. It was a pity that Nicolas had not been the one to bring her across.

* * * * *

Methos paused at the first alley he came to. He could feel them out there, circling about. Definitely more than one. Vampires. He shook his head; it was useless to try to convince someone that they were real, particularly when that someone was as stubborn as MacLeod. It was better to try to draw them away from the unwary, away from MacLeod. He was very important to Methos for a variety of reasons.

He had met his first vampire hundreds of years ago and due to that experience, he was familiar with the peculiar mental suggestion they were prone to use to entice their victims into a vulnerable situation. He had felt it in the tavern — an urge to walk outside to get some fresh air. If he hadn't recognized the faint but distinctive touch, he would have been oblivious that his need to go outside wasn't his own idea. But now that he was sensitive to their technique, he was adept at avoiding them when ever he felt them near.

He could feel a new suggestion compelling him to walk down the street and into a park. The summons was stronger, an irresistible siren's call and to defy it was causing him to break out in a cold sweat.

He didn't know who it was or why they had targeted him, but he was determined to lead them away and then escape. Trouble was, it was easier said than done.

He felt the call to walk into the unlit park intensify and he grimaced. "Not if I can bloody well help it!"

He glanced uncertainly into the alley. That could be a trap, too, but at least it was still in the direction of the church. He had a theory that if he drank holy water it would protect him. It should work, but he had never tested it. Reaching up, he took off his necklace and held the simple but ancient silver cross by its black string. He hardly ever wore the crucifix anymore, but lately he had been feeling uneasy and a sudden whim made him scoop it up and loop it around his neck. Of course, never being one for favorites, he had also slid a certain powerful ankh into his pocket.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped through the shadows and into the alley.

A hundred feet in, he heard the barest of rasps behind him. He spun, holding the crucifix well out in front of him. A woman stood an arm's length away. She would have been considered pretty in a sisterly sort of way if her eyes had not been glowing an eerie orange color. She hissed, displaying a formidable set of canines. Her arm flashed out and she backhanded his hand, sending the cross flying into a pile of rubble.

"Please," he begged, backing away from her.

She advanced on him. "Funny. I've always wanted to have men begging me. Interesting that this is what it takes." She shrugged. "Whatever."

There was a clatter as the other two Immortals from the tavern sped into the alley and skidded to a stop just behind her.

"Jeez, Mac. Adam's afraid of a girl? What a wimp."

The 'girl' spun around, hissing. Her eyes blazed an even darker orange. She picked up the young Immortal and tossed him into a dumpster. She dusted her hands off. "Ain't _nobody_ ever gonna call me 'girl' again."

She gave a challenging look at MacLeod. "You want some of what your buddy got?"

Duncan moved back a pace and drew out his katana. Holding the weapon warily out in front of him, he backed up towards the light cast by a business' back entrance. "Adam, what the hell is going on here?" His voice was strained.

Natalie snorted. "Whew! You sure skip right to the rough stuff, big guy." She circled MacLeod carefully.

Adam started forward. "No!" The rest was cut off abruptly as he suddenly felt a presence behind him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he shivered. A hand that was warm, but still had the last vestiges of an unearthly coolness to it reached up to his shoulder, the thumb tracing a pattern on the side of his throat. It was so familiar….

"LaCroix."

The deep, lyrical voice from the past contained a chuckle. "You remembered." He sounded pleased.

Warily, Methos half–turned to face LaCroix. "It would take a frontal lobotomy to make me forget," he said dismissively. "What's this all about, anyway?"

Duncan's sword sliced through the air where Natalie had been. Instantly she was behind him. She pushed him hard to the ground and followed to pin him there.

LaCroix tilted his head slightly to the side. "What it's always about?" he hazarded, innocently.

Methos fixed the vampire with a no nonsense, don't–give–me–that type of look.

LaCroix merely shrugged. "You know what my terms are."

Methos stared hard at the vampire while weighing his options and possible outcomes. Finally, a hint of a smile pulled at the sides of his mouth, and he shook his head slightly. "You haven't changed much, have you?"

LaCroix looked both smug and pleased. "You didn't really think I would?"

Methos sighed and glanced at the battle in progress. He hated being strong–armed or finding himself in a position where he _had_ to do anything. But he did have high hopes for MacLeod. Duncan was the most worthy Immortal Methos had ever known. If there could be only one, it was Methos' opinion it should be MacLeod. Since the ancient Immortal was determined not let anything happen to MacLeod, he turned about to stare LaCroix in the eye. "As you wish. Stop her — spare them _unharmed_ — and I will go with you."

"Another of your promises, so freely given, so difficult to collect on?"

The fight on the ground had escalated to where MacLeod was putting everything he had into the battle — and he was still losing.

For five thousand years, Methos had lived in many cultures and assumed a great variety of roles. Sometimes he got what he wanted by being straight forward, but most of the time it was by being oblique. And sometimes it was by surrendering. A sense of his priorities kept him focused and gave him purpose.

"You can collect on that promise now, _if_ you leave them unharmed. Tell her to stop," he patiently instructed.

The vampire smiled, satisfied at the determination he saw in the other. He inclined his head and said, "As you wish." Reaching out, he took a firm hold on Methos' upper arm. "Not that I don't trust you, you understand."

Methos returned a much thinner smile. "Of course not."

"Natalie…stop."

Slowly she did as requested, reluctantly removing herself to a few feet away from the Highlander. She continued to stare at him hungrily.

"You are not to touch them; do you understand?" LaCroix asked. He propelled Methos around and slipped his arm about his waist, hooking his fingers firmly around his belt.

MacLeod pushed himself up to his knees. "Adam?" He could see his friend was firmly held by a much larger man; a man whose expression was victorious. "What the hell is going on?!" Duncan demanded, completely at a loss.

LaCroix smiled wickedly. His eyes glittered with intensity as they stayed locked with MacLeod's, feasting on the alarm and confusion that emanated from their brown depths. "How old is that one?" he asked Methos.

"He was born _since_ we last met. He has nothing that you want," Methos answered primly, his tone severe.

"Ah," he said, obviously losing interest. "A pity."

"Let him go," Duncan ordered, standing up. "It's plain he doesn't want to go with you."

"It's all right, MacLeod. I will return."

Duncan looked back at Methos and was disturbed by the passivity and surrender he displayed. Despite what the ancient one said, Duncan was unconvinced that he was truly willing. "Adam! Don't do this!" he warned.

With a slight sense of disorientation, Methos felt his feet leave the earth. LaCroix was flying him to somewhere. Straight up they went, but he kept eye contact with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod until he was swallowed by the darkness.

* * * * *

#### England, 1349:

LaCroix's hunger was intense. His body burned with the need for sustenance, his cells crying out in their privation. He drifted above the desolate English countryside, the blackness of a moonless night causing the land below to be darker even than the night sky. Desperately, he searched for the flicker of a candle or the glow of a campfire; anything that would indicate a living soul.

But there was nothing. Nothing but decay and the stench of rotting corpses as they lay where they fell, with no one left to bury them. Village after village passed beneath him, all of them dead. The plague had suffered few survivors in this shire.

His hunger grew as he widened his search, following the river away from the market towns. He headed out into the hills where the population was scarce to begin with. Perhaps a shepherd, poacher or an outlaw still remained untouched by the taint of the Black Death. Once infected, the blood soured with its corruption and then death quickly followed. LaCroix had fed on so much of it that he could stand it no longer. The hunger was easier to deal with than a stomach full of putridity.

He kept searching, heading further and further into the wilderness of the Marlborough Downs and wished again he had stayed with Nicolas in Paris, instead of coming here on a whim. Actually, it was less a whim than to spare himself the embarrassment of showing any of the jealousy that filled his cold heart as he watched Nicolas cavorting with his newest consort. Margarite was a female vampire, wild and daring, and she delighted in spurring LaCroix's protege into acts of recklessness and…passion. She was an old acquaintance of LaCroix's, and he knew firsthand of her inherent cruelty. LaCroix hoped that if he left, depriving her of her audience, her desire to torment him would wither and then, predictably, she would tire of Nicolas. Then LaCroix could return to Paris.

The wind shifted, bringing the hint of wood smoke to him. "Ah…." he groaned, giving thanks to the goddess, Diana, for hearing his pleas. Then he sneered at his own words; old habits were hard to break, even to the extent of appealing to ancient gods that even he no longer believed in.

LaCroix turned his face into the wind and followed the scent. He was on the hunt, and he felt his blood quicken with the hope of replenishment.

He soon found the house; all alone in a shallow valley, a faint light seeping from around the thin cracks of the window shutters. He landed lightly on the stone stoop, placed his hand on the door latch and hesitated, listening.

One. He could hear the slow and steady beat of one heart.

He could wait no longer and he was instantly in the house, standing in front of a table where a man sat writing in a large book, his back to the modest fire in the hearth.

The man startled and looked up, hazel eyes wide with alarm. "Who are you?" he demanded, setting his quill down, and gliding smoothly to his feet. He backed up a step.

Pleased at the healthy glow in the thin face, LaCroix decided to get to the point; his hunger would allow no delay. He stared hard into the wary eyes, flooding his will over the young man, stealing from him the course of action. He advanced slowly on his stunned victim, maintaining his control.

"It matters not," he soothed, as he reached out to the figure clothed in a heavy wool robe. The pulse in the long, pale neck beckoned, enticing him with its promise of sweetness. He circled behind and brought his arms up around his dazed quarry, baring the throat. The change coursed through him like fire and he sank his teeth deep into the warm flesh. Blood flowed and he sucked eagerly at the wound…and was transported!

The taste! It was like nothing he'd ever experienced! It was….

Lightening crackled against his lips. Shocked, LaCroix was flung against the wall.

His victim staggered as awareness returned. A split second later, he bolted around the table and came up holding a sword. He pointed the blade at the vampire and started forward with a halting determination.

The man's impertinence angered LaCroix. With his preternatural speed, he was instantly inside the other's defenses. LaCroix stared down into the slighter man's terrified eyes. "Fool!" he sneered, then reached out and snapped his neck. LaCroix preferred to have the heart pumping while he ate, but it was not required. A meal that was fighting back with a sharp weapon was sure to be a meal that he would not enjoy.

He bit into the throat again and sucked hard, draining as much as he could, as fast as he could. The wonderful taste was still there, but he gulped quickly, his hunger demanding volume rather than appreciation. But even still, his mind was flooded with images — the life experiences of his prey. Or at least, that's what should have happened, but the sheer number of the fragments cascading into LaCroix made him feel as if he was drowning. Confused and disturbed, he rejected the memories and finished, dropped his meal untidily to the ground.

Now that he was sated, he glanced uneasily about the room. Who was this man, and what was he doing out here? LaCroix stepped over the body and peered at the entry he'd been writing when he was interrupted. The script was clear and strong, but written very small and in perfect Latin. It was a journal or diary, and this page recorded the progression of the Black Death in the current year of 1349.

Curious, he settled into the chair, and thumbed the pages back. The decades fell away, then the centuries — all accurately recorded. Truths that were known at the time, but were now long since forgotten, stared out at him from the starkness of the vellum pages. This was a chronicle that covered over three centuries…and all written in the same hand. The exact same hand that had just been transcribing the current entry. How could that be?

Suddenly, his vision blurred and LaCroix felt the room spin. So intent had he been on the words, he hadn't noticed a strange tingling that now raced through his whole being. A pain, a warmth; it was everywhere. Small muscles in his eyelids and under the skin of his forearms twitched with the spreading current. The power seemed to build, to coalesce and LaCroix found he could not breath. He knew _something_ was about to happen and he gripped the table's edge tightly, fearfully. He was a _vampire,_ immune to all threats but a few well–known dangers. But this feeling was unknown and he found himself wondering if he had just discovered a new way for a Prince of Darkness to die.

When it seemed like he could stand it no longer, he felt the energy course downward and discharge out into the floor with a small zapping sound. The air suddenly smelt of lightning.

He sat dazed, wondering what had just occurred. And into that silence he heard something else; the beating of a human heart.

LaCroix stared at the man on the floor. It came as no surprise when the man jerked and gasped, his eyes springing open.

LaCroix nodded slowly. "That, explains a great deal," he drawled.

* * * * *

Methos took in a great, shuddering breath. The confusion that was common after a fatal event was even worse this time. He stared up at the rough–hewed ceiling and tried to recall what had taken his life, but he couldn't think straight and he was having trouble catching his breath. What—?

The sound of a chair being pushed back startled him and he tried to lift his head. A weakness was upon him though, and he was only able to turn his face toward the danger. A man, tall and pale approached. He stopped and stared down at Methos, a look of casual interest in his expression.

"What…?" Methos tried to asked, but he found his mouth parched, his throat too dry to speak.

This seemed to amuse his visitor. "Do you thirst?" he inquired. "I imagine you might." He caught up a pitcher of water from the sideboard and knelt down.

A strong arm slipped under Methos and pulled him into a sitting position. The movement made his head swim and he was only vaguely aware of the crockery cool against his lips.

"Drink!" The command, both heard and felt, was irresistible.

He swallowed weakly as the cool fluid flowed into his mouth and streamed over his chin. It was near to choking him and he tried to turn away.

"More!" came the order.

He applied himself to the task and continued to drink until there was no more. The pale man settled Methos back to the floor, but before he left him, he applied a cool touch to the right side of his throat. The caress explored the skin and rubbed firmly at a spot beneath his ear — a spot that still harbored the last vestiges of the phantom pain that remained after an injury had healed.

And then Methos remembered. This man, _this creature_ , had bewitched then attacked him, biting his neck and draining his blood. Killing him. He lifted his hand and gingerly felt the site, fearful that a deep injury to his neck might have left a scar. Immortals rarely developed scars except for serious, non– fatal injuries to the neck. But luck was with him and his skin felt smooth and whole.

Feeling exposed, Methos scooted weakly over to the wall and levering himself up, braced his back against it, both for support and for the slight protection it afforded. He watched as his attacker walked slowly around the room, examining all with a speculative gaze. He picked up a small stone carving and stilled as he got a better look at it. Setting it down, he passed a crucifix, flinching slightly before he hurried on to a shuttered window. He reached out and gave the wood a brisk jiggle to test its strength. When he got to the shelving where Methos stored his journals, the man plucked one volume at random. He stood there for a long while, the pale blue eyes scanning quickly over the pages.

Time passed and Methos shifted uncomfortably; the floor was cold and had become noticeably harder the longer he sat on it. Feeling a bit stronger, he pulled his robe closer around himself. He was always sensitive to the cold, but now he felt chilled to the bone. A shiver shook him, and he wrapped his arms about himself.

"If you are cold, move closer to the fire," the man spoke without stopping his reading.

Methos considered the words and tried to think of any disadvantage to the suggestion. He was loath to leave the safety of his somewhat defensible position, but he also realized that was an illusion. His assailant had mesmerized him, and when he had attacked, it had been with unearthly speed and tremendous power. There was nowhere he could go where he'd be safe, and there was no reason to stay where he was.

Except the man that had just killed him had suggested that he move.

In the end, his dislike of the cold won out. He pushed himself to his feet, teetering slightly from the lingering weakness. Methos steadied himself by placing his hand against the wall and gathered his resolve. What he really needed to find out was what this creature was, and what it wanted of him. "Who are you?" he called out. "What are you?"

The stranger snapped the book shut and turned towards Methos. "Feeling better, are we?" His voice was low and deep, with a mellifluous quality to it that made the man sound as if he was reading poetry. He slowly walked closer.

As he moved further into the light, Methos could see the man wasn't just pale, he was luminously white. His fair hair was clipped short, old style — very old style. Eyes the color of a glacial stream stared straight into him and he tensed for another attack.

"And what, pray tell, are you?" the creature asked, staring with such intensity at Methos that he backed up a foot.

The compulsion to tell the truth was sudden and nearly irresistible. "I…I am John, a scholar," Methos lied with a slight stammer. That was the name he currently was using. He had spent the last five years at Oxford, studying and generally hiding himself amid the university. Most Immortals were drawn to danger and conflict. Methos had long since discovered that places of learning were relatively quiet and dull, a veritable anathema to others of his kind. It was really quite fortunate that he enjoyed the arts of learning, studying and researching since those activities were the best for hiding. Unfortunately, Oxford had closed this year due to the plague and he had had to leave. He had returned to the empty Downs, now so different than they had once been, many lifetimes ago.

"Really." The name seemed to amuse the man and he smiled. "Well, John," LaCroix lingered over the name and raised an elegant eyebrow, "a scholar you must be to be able to write so fluently in both Latin and ancient Greek, not to mention those Egyptian and Minoan trinkets that litter your shelves."

Alarmed that his belongings were recognized and known for exactly what they were, Methos looked to the ground, anywhere but into those compelling pale eyes. How could this man know of these things? Yes, Latin and Rome were remembered, but the wonders of Egypt and Crete were long forgotten. He knew this creature was not an Immortal, but what _was_ he?

He heard a chuckle and he glanced up worriedly.

"Since you have asked, you may call me LaCroix, and I believe that I will be imposing upon your hospitality for quite a while."

* * * * *

LaCroix was quite entertained just watching the emotions flow over the expressive face. Shock, alarm, horror, more alarm. Yes, this young man could prove as interesting as Nicolas was. When the wide set eyes looked back up at him, LaCroix could also see intelligence in them. This promised to be an enjoyable diversion.

LaCroix retreated back to the table and sat down. He indicated a second chair with a flourish. "Do make yourself more comfortable."

Methos hesitated for a brief second, then complied. He pulled the chair closer to the fire and sat, perching on the very edge of the chair.

LaCroix smiled again. "Good." Looking back at the book, he indicated it with a nod. "These journals are quite old and they are written in your own hand. It appears that you are much older than you seem. All that remains to be discovered is how much older."

"I could ask the same of you."

LaCroix could tell this man wasn't going to give away anything unless he was tricked into it. A battle of wits; how delightful! He smiled. "Guess," he baited, using the Latin form of the word.

Methos paused. Seeming to come to a decision, he leaned back and studied the vampire with an appraising eye. "Let us see; tall, fair, controlling, an innate cruel streak and that certain air of superiority. A knowledge of, but not an appreciation of, ancient cultures. Let me guess: Roman, centurion or higher, born in the north of Italy or of a Gaulish slave. Shall we say around the birth of Christ, give or take a hundred years?"

The boldness of the reply surprised LaCroix. Though he was stunned by the accuracy of the guess, he let himself react more to the sting of the implied insult. "Spoken like a man who had visited fair Rome herself, under less than pleasant circumstances. Now allow me to guess; you are Greek and probably spent several long life–times as a slave, keeping the books straight of your Roman betters." Even in the fire light, LaCroix could see a flush creep up Methos' neck and face. It made him look quite delectable. Too bad LaCroix was still full from his previous meal.

"Bastard," Methos spat. Resentment sparked off the young man. Except this young man was probably much older than LaCroix himself. Still, he must have hit close to the mark to get such a reaction; the experiences this one must have had tantalized LaCroix. "Besides, do I look Greek to you?"

"Being Greek was a state of mind. Of course I can see that you are not a native, born to those sunny isles. But if a man lives long enough anywhere, he may absorb a culture, eventually becoming more Greek than the Greek themselves."

Studying the expressive face, LaCroix suddenly felt curious, and in a strange way, lonely. He had never found a vampire as old he was, though he had heard rumors that there might be a few — made by the same ancient one that had brought across LaCroix's beautiful daughter, Divia. She had brought LaCroix across while their villa was being destroyed by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. And Lucius, now named LaCroix, had had no choice but to destroy his daughter later when it was plain, to even him, how evil and depraved she had become.

He had outlived everyone he knew, including the most advanced civilization the world had ever seen. He was caught in these dark times filled with ignorance and superstition, and there were none around who had ever known there was a different way to live. None who remembered the brilliance and glory that had been Rome. The sun had smiled that singular city/culture and they had prospered. They had taken from the Greeks all that was beautiful, enlightened and useful: art, sculpture, drama, architecture, philosophy — even their gods had become Roman.

The truth was that LaCroix was homesick for the time and the ways of the land of his birth. He stared at the intelligent, quick face before him and decided that there stood the answer to both his problems; a man who had lived in Rome and even before, and a man who was a permanent supply of blood, untainted by the corruption of the plague.

"The Romans did their fair bit of absorbing peoples that did not want to be absorbed. I rather imagine that was one of your duties," Methos said, with a hint of accusation.

"Everything becomes consumed by something else eventually," LaCroix said, his eyes narrowing. He stood up slowly, suddenly tired.

Methos, alarmed by the change in tone, frantically dove off his chair and scrambled over to where his sword lie. He had barely closed his fingers over it when LaCroix was upon him.

Grabbing the right arm, LaCroix tightened his grip until the weapon fell from slackened fingers. He shoved Methos hard against the wall and leaned in, pining him. He heard the rapid flutter of the Immortal's heart, felt the strong chest gasp for breath against his own breast. The vitality of the life force was strong within his captive. Even though he was completely full from his previous feeding, LaCroix wanted him still — the delights of the ancient vintage that was Methos' blood called to him. He stared at the beautifully shaped lips, so fresh, so exquisitely perfused by the blood within. He breathed deep, inhaling the heady perfume of the vital fluid so temptingly near.

He glanced up and idly wondered if those rich, hazel eyes could be any wider or more alarmed. LaCroix considered what his chances were in repeatedly using this man as a food source, yet at the same time, trying to build an intellectual relationship with him. As LaCroix's feedings could certainly do Methos no permanent harm, it might be possible. In any case, the attempt would provide him with both a diversion and challenge his skills.

LaCroix could hear birds chirping outside and could sense the sunrise just minutes away. It was late. To serve justice, this morsel would have to wait for tonight when LaCroix's appetite was sharper and there was more time to savor him, more time to begin again. "Later," he breathed.

He pulled Methos with him as he walked to the bed, scooping up a length of cord from where it lay coiled on a shelf.

"Lie down," he ordered. It did not take long before he had securely tied down Methos, the wrists bound separately and the cord passing under the bed. He studied the slender young man, who stared back apprehensively. LaCroix decided the expression suited him and he determined he might as well give Methos something more to fret about.

"You may be tempted to escape, but I will find you if you do, Methos."

At the use of his name, Methos' expression went incredulous.

LaCroix chuckled. "Oh yes, I know your true name. I know a great deal about you." LaCroix choose not to enlighten him that that information had been passed to him through the blood. At the time, the sheer volume of information had been confusing, but then it had made more sense as he had the chance to assimilate it. He had sensed many identities, but 'Methos' had been very consistent. He took a guess and knew it to be true by Methos' expression. Unfortunately, the other images would be much harder to decipher with just too many to figure out at the moment. He needed time to himself to truly understand what he had in his possession.

Methos swallowed hard. "What do you want of me?" he asked, confused and unnerved by the vampire's steady stare.

LaCroix grinned. "What would you say if I told you 'a good meal and some enlightened conversation?'" Leaving the puzzled man to ponder the meaning of his words, LaCroix walked over to where an internal door led to small storage room that promised to be darker and more secure. LaCroix smiled. "Sweet dreams," he bade, then slipped inside.

* * * * *

The day had dragged on slowly. Methos was comfortable enough tied to the bed, but the thought of what was in store for him made him continue to work at his bonds as he attempted to worry them apart. A beheading was the only way in which he could be permanently killed, but the idea of dying repeatedly by having his blood drained was positively repulsive. And why did the creature have to bite the neck? Methos was very protective about his throat and hated the idea of anything sharp near it. No, despite what LaCroix had said, the best thing would be to escape.

He paused, remembering the promise to recapture him, and tried to calculate possible outcomes. Romans, as a rule, had been rather single–minded about what they wanted. Powerful and in control, if they saw something they wanted, it would be theirs — sooner, rather than later. Resisting them was a poor idea, as they usually made a point to punish and torment the uncooperative. Thankfully, it was a mentality he had not had to deal with for a very long time.

During the time of Rome, he had attempted to stay away from any large Roman city, as the whole culture had an attitude that he found abhorrent. Towards the end of the time of Caesars and the Empire, the civilization had sickened and gone crazy. There had been times when he had had no choice in the matter, and been taken to Rome anyway. He had been forced to do things that disgusted him, forced to see things of incomprehensible cruelty — things done for sport and in the name of entertainment. All in all, Methos had been quite relieved when Rome fell and he barely regretted the anarchy that followed.

He decided to take his chances and run the risk of recapture anyway. As long as he kept his head, there would always be another chance at escape, another opportunity for success.

It was late in the afternoon when Methos felt the presence of an approaching Immortal. He wasn't expecting any friends so the odds were this was a foe. He gave two or three violent jerks at his bonds hoping he had caused a weakening, but they still seemed secure.

He wet his lips; it looked like he needed help and he needed it now. "LaCroix!" he called out. "We need to talk; it is important!" He listened intently, but heard nothing. He could feel the Immortal outside getting closer. He tugged again at his restraints, but they held firm. He sighed. Well, capitulation always worked wonders with Romans — they couldn't resist gloating. "LaCroix! Someone is approaching who may mean me harm. Come out and release me, and I will do whatever it is that you want. LaCroix! I beg of you, please!"

The door burst inward and a man, sword out before him, leaped into the room. Maintaining the ready stance, he quickly moved about, scanning for others. He kicked in the door to the storage room, glanced about and then returned, centering his attention on Methos. He was tall, dark–haired, blue–eyed and dressed as a fighter. His gear was well taken care of and he was heavily armed. Formidable, efficient and dangerous; this did not bode well. Helpless before him, Methos suddenly felt very ill.

He quit struggling and concentrated on talking his way out. "Ahh…my name is John and you are…?"

"Rennard d'Lyon." The accent was French, much heavier than what the Norman elite of England used. The man must travel a great deal, not bothering to attempt to blend into the population. He was probably intent on one thing only.

Rennard moved up to the bed and braced his legs apart.

"Rennard, this is not very fair now, is it? Untie me; give me a fighting chance — though from the looks of things, you will not have much to worry about."

Rennard slowly centered the sword across Methos' neck.

Methos began jerking against his bonds again. "Look, is there anything you need; money, secrets, the location of the one, true grail…?"

Rennard's expression was cold, hard and definitely eager. "There can be only one," he pronounced as he raised the sword over his head. He paused, then with a mighty effort, heaved the weapon down hard.

* * * * *

Only to be stopped by LaCroix, his left hand alone strong enough to halt the sword in mid–strike.

Surprised by his sudden appearance, Rennard recovered enough to glare. He jerked his hand away and stepped back, pointing the weapon at the vampire. "Do not interfere, mortal!"

LaCroix ignored the sword point and smiled. "I have been called many things throughout my life, but 'mortal' was never one of them." He stepped forward.

"Well, at least you can find comfort that you were called it once before you died!" Rennard lunged forward.

LaCroix was instantly behind him. Hissing, he trapped the sword arm with one hand and gripped the head with the other. The throat exposed, he sank his fangs into the flesh, easily restraining Rennard's struggles. When the sting of lightning crackled against his lips this time, he was ready for it. He paused, then returned to his feast after reopening the wound. Rennard grew weaker and weaker until LaCroix felt him die.

LaCroix dropped the limp body to the floor and looked over at Methos. His captive stared back with an odd mixture of horror and amazement.

"He was younger than you, much younger." LaCroix observed as he wiped his face clean.

Methos considered the words, then curiosity got the better of him. "How can you possibly tell?"

"How would you tell a fine wine?"

Methos was horrified. "By taste? You can _taste_ how old someone is?!"

LaCroix reached down and picked up Rennard's sword. "Oh, I can tell a lot more than that." Rennard had only been, at the most, two hundred years old. There was one image that kept repeating and that was of swords cutting off people's heads. LaCroix hefted the sword and wondered….

Methos looked worried. "What are you going to do with that?"

LaCroix stared at his captive. This preoccupation with the sword was crucial somehow, but he couldn't quite figure it out. Well, there was only one thing to be done. Without preamble, he raised the blade and brought it swiftly down on Rennard, severing his head with one clean stroke.

"NO!" Methos howled.

LaCroix stepped back warily, sure something was about to happen.

A white mist rose above Rennard's body. It grew tendrils that curved towards Methos, encircling him about the chest. Lightning danced along the mist and bolts shot into Methos' mouth and eyes. He screamed, his body arching up. He held that position, jerking and seizing as the raw power erupted about the room, piercing his body. Floorboards exploded and the shutters burst outwards. His arms were wrenched upwards, snapping the cords that held him down, the tattered ends dangling from each wrist as his limbs jerk to and fro. Methos screamed again, long and hoarse, the sound pulled out of his very being as the energy continued to invade his body.

LaCroix stared with alarm at the carnage happening about him. Then he felt a tingling in his stomach. Horrified, he gazed down at himself. "Dear gods," he had time to whisper before he was flung bodily across the room as a bolt of energy erupted out of this mouth and off his fingertips. A white ball coalesced, spinning briefly before blasting into Methos' body, abruptly cutting off his cries.

The room fell silent. A shutter hanging by one hinge, dropped, clattering into the stillness. LaCroix picked himself up and moved cautiously over to Rennard's body. He bent down to examine it closer.

A moan drifted over from Methos as he rolled painfully onto his side, curling slightly. LaCroix glanced over and realized that the late afternoon sun was shining through one of the windows and the bed now lay in full daylight. He stood up and moved to a protected, shadowed corner and waited.

* * * * *

After the pain receded, Methos rolled over onto his back and sighed. Quickenings were unique and unpredictable. He had never absorbed one while tied to a bed and he did not recommend it; he felt as if he had pulled a dozen muscles. Feeling better, he sat up and looked around. Rennard lay dead, beheaded and a threat no more. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He suddenly caught sight of the vampire in a dark corner of the room and stopped. LaCroix seemed undamaged; why had he not come for him? Could it be true about creatures of the night and their aversion to sunlight?

He moved slowly towards the door, keeping his eyes on LaCroix.

The vampire's eyes glittered dangerously. "Where do you think you are going?"

Methos put his hand on the door latch. "Away."

"And your promise to do what I wished if I saved you? What of that?"

Methos grinned. "You may have trouble collecting on that if I can help it." And he was out the door.

"Run if you like, but I will be coming after you!" LaCroix shouted.

"You wouldn't be Roman if you didn't," Methos muttered under his breath. He ran to the hilltop and paused to consider his options. He had maybe an hour of sunlight left and had left without his sword; not good — not that his sword had provided him with any defense against LaCroix. He needed somewhere protected to go. Holy Ground was his first inclination. He didn't know if it would be protection from vampires, but they were a type of Immortal, too. And at least he would be safe from any other roaming Immortals who were looking to collect a few heads.

The village of Avebury was nearby. In fact, it was what attracted him to this place. He had lived here long ago when they had raised the enormous stones and placed them in the intricate avenues and circles. Now, the miles of stone rows were mostly gone, buried by the order of the Benedictine priory that was nearby. The good news was that the village itself was half in the circle, and a circle of standing stones was Holy Ground. He would find shelter there.

It was as good as any place with barely an hour of daylight left.

* * * * *

Dusk had overtaken him an hour ago and he was only now just approaching the village. He could make out the massive stones in front of him, sticking up like ragged teeth, bathed in the uncertain light of a three quarters moon. In the last few minutes, the feeling that he was being watched, being followed, grew with each step he took. He tried to calm the anxiety he felt, but it blazed instead. Totally unnerved, he gave in and broke into a trot. Once he was running, he quickly picked up speed until he was sprinting towards what he hoped was safety, racing as fast as he ever had in his long life.

He dashed into the circle and knew it wasn't enough. He altered his path, now aiming towards some of the buildings. He caught sight of the church and put his head down for the final spurt, letting his intuition guide him. _That_ was where he needed to be.

Suddenly, he was blindsided with such force that it knocked him off his feet and carried him sideways until he slammed upright against one of the stones. Stunned, he groggily looked up, knowing that it would be LaCroix who held him fast against the rock.

He felt a hand snake up past his neck, the fingers tightening cruelly onto a great handful of his hair. Slow pressure was applied until his head was bent back at a painful angle, his mouth opening slightly, his neck totally exposed. He despaired, unable to do anything more than pant raggedly as he tried to catch his breath.

LaCroix leaned closer and took a deep breath, inhaling the warmth and smell of Methos, his eyes fixed on his captive's terrified, shocky gaze. "I told you that I would catch you," he sneered.

When Methos offered no answer, LaCroix continued. "And what, pray tell, is so important about this place?"

Methos swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in sharp relief to his slender throat. The vampire's eyes glittered as they caught the movement.

"It is Holy Ground," Methos whispered. "Immortals can not kill each other on Holy Ground."

LaCroix chuckled. "This? Holy Ground? Only a mud–covered savage would believe so. Tell me, Methos, did you paint yourself blue and follow that bitch Boadicea into battle against Rome?"

Methos eye's flashed with anger. "She was a noble queen and a brilliant general. Rome's treatment of her and her daughters was barbaric!"

LaCroix was amused by the passion Methos still felt 1300 years after his queen was dead and buried. He couldn't resist baiting him. "She was a whore and she and her daughters were treated as such."

Methos glared and struggled briefly against him.

LaCroix smiled wickedly. "Perhaps you would care to share their punishment?"

The words were like a bucket of cold water on Methos. He knew that it was utter folly to encourage the vampire to acts of cruelty and violence. He had the distinct impression that LaCroix might find such activity inviting. He needed to change where this conversation was going and quickly.

"There's no need for that," he said, anxiously. He stood a little taller. "I said I would do what you wanted."

"Yes, but that was before you escaped to seek refuge." LaCroix eyed him, uncertain if he had truly gained the Immortal's compliance. He came to a decision. "Alright, I will give you one chance to cooperate." He slid his arms around his captive, locking his hands behind Methos' back. "But be warned; there will be no second chance." He flexed his arms, drawing them together, applying crushing strength to the slight frame he encircled. "Do I make myself clear?"

The threat was obvious and the promise of painful punishment quite unmistakable. Methos yelped, quickly nodding his head. "Yes, yes! I understand!"

"Excellent. Let us return to your charming hovel." And without any warning, the vampire flew into the air, carrying Methos with him.

* * * * *

Methos saw the stars spin and became dizzy. He looked down and was horrified to see the village of Avebury and the stone circle receding into the distance, becoming smaller as he went higher into the air.

"What in heaven's name—?" he gasped. He snapped his attention back on LaCroix. "my gods, you can fly!" he whispered. Suddenly aware of his precarious position, he flung his arms around LaCroix's neck, clamping on to his only safety with a death grip that he doubted even the vampire could break.

"Do you fear that I will drop you?" LaCroix questioned drily.

Methos turned his head over his shoulder and watched the hills glide past. "What I fear," he snapped, "is being where only _birds_ are meant to be."

LaCroix was amused by the anger. "If it disturbs you so, close your eyes."

But Methos kept looking to the ground, peering over one shoulder then the other. Finally, he said, "Everything looks so different up here. If one could only capture how this looks on a map, it would be amazingly accurate."

"You have drawn other maps?"

"I've tried my hand at it a few times; the course of the Nile, routes to the East, the land around the North Sea, that type of thing. How high up can you go?"

"I thought you did not like heights."

"I was startled. You gave me no warning," he said defensively.

"Well, I am warning you now; your house is up ahead and we are descending towards it — not falling." LaCroix had spirited other mortals away and they invariably had trouble with the concept of gently returning to earth, usually panicking, thinking they were falling instead.

Methos peered downwards, leaning dangerously away from the vampire, watching curiously as the ground drew closer.

LaCroix set them down and held briefly onto the Immortal until he was sure he had recovered his balance. The smaller man stepped back a pace and straightened his clothes with a small, nervous gesture.

Uncertain as to what to expect, Methos cleared his throat. "I would like to replenish my water supply," he asked. At LaCroix questioning expression, he explained further. "There is a well behind the house. I have a few pitchers and a pot or two." He hesitated, then added, "I thought perhaps I might start a stew."

"Do you hunger?"

He brought his eyes up to stare levelly at LaCroix. The question seemed to have a significance which he didn't understand. "Yes," he replied, uneasy at the way the vampire was staring at him. "Besides, is it not in your best interests that I eat and drink?"

"Quite. By all means; continue with your tasks." He stepped aside to let the Immortal pass into the house.

Methos sighed. "The fire's out." He walked into the dark room and immediately stepped into a hole left by a displaced floorboard. Colorful curses filled the air, mostly in Latin.

The vampire's vision was not impaired by the darkness. He watched as Methos pulled himself out of one hole only to fall into another.

Methos landed on his backside, his shoulder hitting something soft and yielding. "What…?" he exclaimed. He felt further then groaned. "I had forgotten about him. This place is a bloody mess, isn't it?" He leaned forward to pull himself out of the new hole then froze. "His head; can you see his head anywhere? I hate bumping into those."

That was enough for LaCroix. " _I_ will start the fire. You go out and draw the water," he ordered.

Methos bobbed his head in agreement and edged his way back towards the door, not bothering to try to regain his feet in the treacherous dark. "Fine by me," he muttered.

LaCroix found all that he needed to start the fire by the hearth. Once it had caught, he gathered up both Methos' and Rennard's swords and floating upwards, hid them in the rafters. Returning to the floor, he took hold of the head and body of the late Rennard d'Lyon and flew them over to a thicket in a nearby valley and dumped them, taking care to cover the remains with leaves and debris. When he returned he found the pitchers were full, the fire fed and that Methos was resetting the floorboards, tapping them back in place.

"I will need to scrub these down tomorrow to remove the blood."

LaCroix nodded and leaned against the door jam. He watched as the Immortal work quickly, switching from task to task. When Methos knelt at the hearth and started to slice the roots and throw them in a pot, LaCroix moved to the table and asked, "What will you use for meat?"

"Not Rennard, if that is what you are thinking," he said drily. "No, I have some dried venison here from the cache hanging in the storage room."

"The King's deer?"

"I did not ask, and the deer did not say." Methos picked up a covered jar and removed a sprig of some herb. He crushed it and sprinkled it over the contents of the cooking pot.

The aroma brought to mind warm, sunny days in the Neapolitan countryside for LaCroix. "Rosemary," he murmured, lost in thought. That particular herb was favored in Roman recipes. "Tell me, Methos; do you still keep many of the customs of Rome?"

Methos looked up curiously. "A few, I imagine. Certain dishes, regular bathing, a fondness for heated floors and herb gardens if I can manage them. Why?"

"Sometimes I…." he started, his eyes as distant as if he were gazing through the ages to look longingly upon Rome herself.

Methos stilled, watching thoughtfully as the vampire became lost in his memories. He knew the feeling well; sometimes all one could recall was a smell — like the combination of meadow flowers and baking bread on a dewy morning — or the glow from the setting sun as it bathed monuments built of stone with golden light. Details fled, names and faces sank away to be forever lost. Significant events that he felt were worth his life at the time, now seemed like they must have happened to another, or maybe were even completely forgotten. Yes, his heart knew the longing and the sadness that accompanied that expression.

Methos picked up the wooden ladle and stirred the stew. "What do you miss most?" he asked, softly.

LaCroix took a deep breath and gazed about the interior of the dark, rough–hewn shelter that barely kept the weather out. "Marble. White walls and tile floors. Sculptures and busts. Frescos. Orderly gardens. Roads paved with stones instead of mud ruts." He looked back down at Methos. "The glory of a victory and the triumphant march back into Rome."

Methos remembered back to the days of the Roman Republic. Order and organization was something they took pride in and excelled at. He could see how a product of that culture would be dismayed at the disorder and chaos that had replaced it. He sighed and stirred the pot one last time before he placed it on a ledge in the hearth. Picking up a pitcher and a couple of tankards, he placed them on the table and sat down, gesturing for LaCroix join him.

When Methos was about to fill the second cup, LaCroix stopped him with a slight gesture of his hand. "I have no need for water or food," he said as he settled on a chair.

"None? Ever?"

"Never."

Methos considered the information and what it would mean for him later. Well, there was no point of dwelling on the inevitable. He took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair. "Do you know what I miss? The debates. The thirst for knowledge, the freedom of thought."

LaCroix smiled at the expansive and earnest way his companion spoke. He had not heard such enthusiasm for ideas in a very long time. "Tell me, do you know the stories of Rome's foundation?"

Methos grinned. Recounting histories and telling tales were his forte — one that he was seldom able to indulge in. "I know both the legends and the reality. Which would you like to hear?"

"Next you will be telling me they are not the same," he replied sardonically.

Methos' eyes sparkled as his agile mind sprang to the task of entertaining his guest. True, this guest was not of his choosing, but another custom of the Greeks and Romans was the rule of hospitality; to feed, clothe and protect your guests — even if that guest was a sworn enemy — and it was a custom he had lived with for thousands of years. It was easy to slip back into old ways, and he settled down to talk for the remainder of the evening.

* * * * *

The conversation was lively and the night sped by. Methos was preparing to launch into a spirited defense of Alexander (whom LaCroix didn't care for, for some reason) when LaCroix held up his hand. "Enough for tonight; it is time to retire." He stood up and gestured for the Immortal to join him.

Now was the time to make good on the second part of the promise — to provide a good meal. Methos hesitated, his expression unsettled. He asked pensively, "Will I die each time you…?"

"Each time I feed?" LaCroix finished. "Does dying bother you?"

"Yes," he snapped. "It is something I try to avoid." The fear he had been suppressing all evening sprang forward, causing his temper to flare.

LaCroix cocked his head to the side and decided to answer as truthfully as possible. "I do not know; it was never an option in the past. I either fed until the heart stopped, or until the point came where they must partake of my blood and thus become like me."

This revelation startled Methos. He had no inkling that there was a possibility of being converted to a different type of immortality — one that would require him to kill mortals each night as he drank their blood. "No! You will not do that to me!" he commanded, his voice filled with warning, his eyes narrowed.

LaCroix could hear the Immortal's heart beating faster, could smell the urge to fight or run, flow hot through the young man's blood. The vampire's eyes gleamed; most of his meals started out this way. The excitement of the chase, the scent of their fear, their overwhelming need to live; it was a pattern that made his teeth itch with hunger. He resisted the instinct to leap upon Methos and instead took a small, measured step towards him. "As you wish." He held out his hand. "Come with me; I give you my word that I will not cause you permanent harm."

Methos stood there breathing fast, feeling cornered. The soon to be sunlit world beyond the door could be his salvation, but he had given a promise to this person to stay and do as he was bid. And if he did not make good on the escape, there was LaCroix's promise that he would be dealt with harshly, and unfortunately, the vampire _did_ know the secret of how to permanently end an Immortal's life.

LaCroix could almost read each thought that Methos had, so expressive was his face. The vampire sent a little mental persuasion to the frozen Immortal and soothed him with a sense of calm. There was no need for the man to get too frightened. Besides, it promised to be a novel experience to have a cooperative dinner.

He walked to the storage room door and held it open expectantly. "I have moved the bedding into here where it is darker and more secure. You will be safer with me."

Methos looked at LaCroix then closed his eyes. The hunger and intensity on the vampire's face only served to make icy fingers travel down his spine and all the small hairs on his body stand straight up. He stiffened his resolved and walked past LaCroix, keeping his eyes forward. When he reached the bedding, he stopped unsure of what was expected of him.

"Lie down," LaCroix urged, closing and barricading the door behind him.

Methos knelt and slowly lowered himself onto the tangle of rough wool blankets that covered the lumpy, feather–filled tick.

"On your back."

The Immortal complied, but his movements were stiff with reluctance.

LaCroix crawled over to him and stared down into the tense face. He captured one slim wrist and leaning down, let his weight rest across Methos' chest. He used his free hand to cup the chin and angle it away, exposing the carotid artery. He could hear the blood as it sang through the vessel, a mere thin layer of skin separating it from LaCroix's hunger. Moving closer, he paused, his lips nearly touching the inviting softness.

"Remember Rome," he whispered. "Let me see, hear, touch and taste her as she lives in your memories."

Methos was near paralyzed with panic. It went against every instinct to lie still and knowingly allow something to consume a part of his very being, perhaps even until he died. He focused on the soft words, not completely understanding them, but determined to use them to escape his present situation. He thought of the different lives he had lived during the centuries that Rome had been supreme.

He was aware that the weight on him shifted, then he felt a warm pressure against his throat. Sharp pain and the sensation of a puncture hit at the same time. "No!" he protested and briefly tried to get away. He was easily pushed back, not even causing LaCroix to miss the rhythm he was developing as he sucked steadily on the throat wound. As the pain died down to an ache, he refocused his mind as requested and remembered back Rome.

LaCroix slowed himself, no longer sucking, but simply swallowing the blood as it flowed naturally out of the gash he had caused. He occasionally needed to reopen the incision as it healed with the strange blue power. Images and sounds filled his senses: the intensity of the sun on his bare back, the sweet smell from the ripening vines during a hot, summer's day, firm hands rubbing soothing oil into his sore muscles, the gentle rasp of many sandaled feet as they crossed tile floors and the faint echo of that slight sound as it reverberated down marbled halls. LaCroix had expected battles and wars, together with the intrigue that comes of power. Instead, there was a steady flow of quiet domesticity and the satisfaction of learning and discussion.

Through the peacefulness came a bolt of alarm. A smug face and the glint of a sword, followed by a quickening. There was power and pleasure…and pain. For an instant, he could feel another's presence as it violently invaded the man known as Methos. As quickly as it had begun, the schism sealed itself and then there was only One. And the One was more powerful than it had been before.

More images flooded into LaCroix and he greedily relished the brief glimpse of a way of life he had thought was beyond his reach. All too soon though, the cohesiveness began to fail. Images and events from recent times were experienced and LaCroix noticed that the heart beneath him was beating desperately and the wrist he held was cool and slack. He knew if he didn't stop soon, the Immortal would die from blood loss.

It was surprisingly easy to stop feeding. His hunger was quenched and he was satisfied to lie back and recall the sweet memories. He heard the crackle of energy as Methos' neck wound healed itself. Feeling the same unsettled energy within his own body, he braced himself as power he had consumed along with the blood gathered and coalesce, finally bursting painfully from him like ball lightning. In the darkness, the energy spread out, hovering over the limp form beside LaCroix before it simply sank into the unconscious Immortal. For a few seconds, it seemed as if Methos himself was glowing, but then that too faded.

Satisfied and content, LaCroix reached over and grasped a large, fleecy sheepskin and pulled it up until it covered the man beside him. He had decided to wait until a few hours before sunset before he would fetch the jug of water for Methos and allow him to drink. Until he did that, the Immortal was helpless and incapacitated and LaCroix did not have to worry that he might run away again.

When Methos revived, they repeated the pattern of the night before: chores made lighter by talk, LaCroix watching Methos eat and drink, then a lively discussion. They talked more on Rome, but eventually included Greece and Egypt. And lastly, one light meal for LaCroix before they settled down to wait out the day — the most fabulous meal LaCroix could ever dream of. He lived again as a mortal; he walked in the sun and heard the trumpets of ancient armies as they prepared for battle. It was a rare gift that LaCroix had never dreamed of having.

It was a pattern that LaCroix was content to repeat for a number of weeks until summer was well and truly gone. When the leaves fell, it was time to return to Nicolas and Paris.

He was surprised to find that he was truly sad when he bade Methos goodbye. The Immortal had breathed into LaCroix a sense of perspective and he felt a reorientation had occurred. Having seen and vicariously shared a life that stretched for thousands of years, LaCroix now knew the sort of stamina and purpose it took to survive such longevity.

Methos, on the other hand, knew he would be relieved once the ordeal was over, but he was also startled to find that he actually missed LaCroix once he had left. It had been centuries since he had had such open and lively discussions. After the former Roman general was gone, Methos thought his cottage very quiet and lonely with no one left to debate the strategies of Hannibal or the intrigue that had led to the downfall of Augustus.

He stared at the empty chairs at the table and sighed. With no further distractions, he pulled the current journal off of its shelf and prepared to make a new entry. Pausing before he put the quill to page, he wondered if it wasn't time for another visit with Darius.

In truth, there was nothing further to keep him in England and every reason to leave; John the Scholar was no longer safe. Methos had a strong suspicion that Rennard d'Lyon had not just happened upon him, but had actually been hunting for him. Somehow, there had been a leak in his cover, and the word was out that one could find an Immortal by the name of John posing as a scholar in the Oxford area. 'John' was now a hindrance and a threat, and Methos was ruthless when it came to eliminating any threat to his safety. 'John' had to go.

That settled, Methos began to plan how John would die. Plague was the easiest and most inconspicuous death lately, and there were plenty of bodies around to substitute for his own. It wasn't very imaginative, but it was a death that would be entered into the local parish church records without a second thought. Which made it absolutely perfect, Methos thought with satisfaction.

Now, if only packing and moving could be handled with such ease for it was an unfortunate fact that Methos hated moving.

* * * * *

#### Seacouver, 1995:

The vampire carried Methos well above the tallest buildings and turned northeast. Hating the feeling of just dangling, Methos wrapped his arms firmly around LaCroix's arm, not trusting his safety to the one–handed grip on his belt. Beneath them, the bright city lights gave way to lonely clusters of the suburbs and then the ominous darkness of the silent coniferous forest. The wind was chill and the medium–weight sweater Methos was wearing did little to retain any warmth. He began to shiver.

"Our destination, is it far?" he asked, suddenly needing to make some connection to LaCroix as he realized just how vulnerable he was. What if LaCroix _had_ changed? The ancient Immortal was now regretting that he had left his sword in his coat at Joe's.

"Nearly there. I see you are still prone to the cold." When Methos did not answer, LaCroix continued. "Imagine; hundreds of lifetimes spent in the simple pursuit of trying to stay warm," he mused.

"Very funny," Methos snapped.

"I see the brisk air does not improve your humor. Fear not, our journey's end is just beyond this lake."

True enough, the vampire set them down on the steps of a very modern cabin. Lights shone out of the downstairs windows and the air contained the scent of wood smoke.

Methos opened the door and stepped inside. A spacious room greeted him, the furnishings comfortable yet rustic. A large fireplace was to the left, the remnants of its previous blaze now just embers and a few low flames. From the kitchen drifted the delightful aroma of lamb and…rosemary.

His fingers still icy and numb, Methos wrapped his arms about himself. "Very nice," he complimented. "You've been planning this for a while, haven't you?" He turned to face LaCroix. "But somehow I can't picture you setting all this up. Too domestic." He smiled at the image.

LaCroix shut the door. "Any service can be bought. All one need do is be exacting with the instructions."

Wandering over to the hearth, Methos removed the spark arrester and used a poker to stir up the fire. "Very 'exacting,' from the looks of things — right down to the hour of our arrival." He added a few more pieces of split wood, lingering to warm his hands in the process.

"As your host, anything less would be negligent."

"Quite." He stood and moved towards the kitchen. "Well, let's see what's for dinner — for me, in any case. We both know what you'll be having: soup du Immortal. Served cold unless you're willing to wait a bit," he added under his breath.

He lifted the lid on a crock pot and inspected the contents. "Lamb stew; very thoughtful." He opened the refrigerator and eyed the contents. "Milk, vegetables, meat, bread, wine and…." he tapered off as he bent inside the door. He straightened back up, twisting the cap off a beer bottle. "Very nicely stocked. From the looks of things, I take it we are staying for a few days?"

"That was my intention."

Methos pointed at the vampire with the beer bottle as he moved into the living room. "Let's talk about that, shall we? How about in the future, you _ask_ me if I'd like to spend a few days visiting with you instead of this mysterious swooping–down–out–of–the–night business that you tend to do." He settled on the couch and took another long drink.

LaCroix consider the words. Finally, he asked, "And you would agree to such a request?"

Methos gave a big, amiable smile. "You'll never know unless you ask."

"Not quite the answer I would have hoped for."

"Ah, come on LaCroix! Everything is so serious with you — though I can see where your life style might be a factor in that. I bet you'd be a registered Republican if you took the time to vote."

LaCroix settled into the chair opposite. "Mortal politics do not interest me, but if I were to register, it would be as a Libertarian."

The ancient Immortal laughed out loud at that. "You know, Lucius; I have missed you," he stated fondly. When LaCroix startled at the use of his first name, Methos smiled even wider. "You forget: I was and am a scholar. Did you really think that I'd just forget about you — a Roman General _and_ a vampire? It took a while, but I was able to find out a few things about your former life. Quite the illustrious career you had going for you."

"Is that how you've spent the last 600 years? Nosing about through ancient records researching the times and places you personally lived through?"

"Oh, I've done a few more things than that, but I do tend to like a quiet life." He took another swig of beer. "Unlike MacLeod, the man you saw fighting in the alley. Now _there's_ an active fellow."

Intrigued, LaCroix watched as a moment of moodiness overtook his companion. The play of emotions across the expressive face was just as readable now as it was in the past: exasperation, annoyance, concern and worry. LaCroix waited patiently.

"You know, I really wish there was a way to get a hold of MacLeod and let him know that I'm fine. He is going to fret and drive everyone to distraction until I get back; that was quite an exit."

LaCroix suppressed a small smile. "In many ways, the world has not changed during our lifetimes: men still kill their brothers for material gain, the strong use and abuse the weak for their own greedy plans."

Methos frowned at the vampire, not following how this was connected with the previous topic.

LaCroix continued to propound. "Yet, there have been some very significant improvements. Small developments that can have profound effects on individual lives."

The Immortal waited, but it was obvious that LaCroix had finished. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?" he asked, perplexed.

"Communications." The small smile grew. "There's a cell phone over there on that desk."

"Ah! It all becomes clear now. Why didn't you say something earlier?" he questioned as he stood up and strode to the desk.

"I was waiting for you to ask," LaCroix commented drily.

Methos stopped and turned, eyeing the softly smiling vampire. "Touche!" he congratulated with an appreciative grin. "I can see that a few hundred years more of wear hasn't dulled you one bit."

LaCroix raised an eloquent eyebrow. "I could do no less for you than you have done for me."

"Ah, but when you feed me, it is a lot less painful than when I feed you."

"Which is why I limit myself to one small meal a day when I'm with you."

"One small meal a day, eh? It doesn't feel like one small meal from my side," he muttered as he punched in MacLeod's number.

After a pause, he stood a little straighter and spoke into the phone. "Oh, hello, MacLeod….

"Yes, yes. I'm fine, really. Look, I'm, ah, staying with a friend for a few days. No need to….

"That's what vampires do; it's part of their unique sense of style. You know, I really am quite surprised that you've never heard of them before. Your education is lacking in a number of….

"That's right, and Joe won't be able to tell you anything so quit bothering him with it. Besides, he belongs to the wrong 'watcher' organization for this crowd…."

Methos rubbed his hand across his eyes. "Look, look! I'm sorry I brought it up," he interrupted. "I don't want to go into all this right now. How about we have a nice, long chat about it on…say…Wednesday?" he asked, throwing LaCroix a questioning look.

The vampire offered a small, noncommittal tip of his head.

Methos turned his attention back to the phone. "…because I'll give you a call if I expect to be any later…." he said with infinite patience.

"Yes…yes…I know you don't…yes…. Look, everything is under control and I'll see you sometime on Wednesday night. Right? Great. See you then." He punched the off button and set the phone down.

"A close friend?" LaCroix asked curiously.

Methos moved back to the couch and flopped down on it. "Oh, you know how it goes; some days we're closer than others."

LaCroix thought about Nicolas; about how after eight hundred years, the younger vampire only had been able to realize and admit that LaCroix was his best friend. But then in that same breath, he had asked for LaCroix to kill him.

Of course he hadn't. LaCroix had knocked him out and sealed him in a crypt, perhaps for years. LaCroix knew very well that somedays, friendships were stronger than on others.

The vampire shifted, settling more comfortably into his chair. "Yes, well, that does seem to be one of the things that stay constant in life, doesn't it?" he said, his voice tinged with melancholy.

Methos was pensive. "Yes," he agreed, with a sigh. Tipping the beer bottle up, he drained the last of it. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his attitude suddenly chipper and eager. "Now then; what shall we talk about tonight?"

END

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written before the episode Comes a Horseman and its 'revelations;' it has made this story an AU. Oh well!
> 
> It is also a gen version of the story, Tainted Love. It has not just had the naughty bits removed, but the last third of the story completely different.
> 
> Also, this story was printed in a zine though I can't remember which.


End file.
